by Katz, Yoram
“France will present this as suppression of the rebels against the Sultan and as an act of friendship towards the Turks. Talleyrand, our foxy foreign minister, will communicate this message to the Sultan in person, but this is merely a smoke screen. Everybody knows that the Ottoman Empire is crumbling. What we really intend to do is transform Egypt into a French colony that will threaten the supply lines to the east of our real enemy – the British.”
Pascal listened with obvious interest. He was a young officer, eager to ride into battle for his country. For weeks now, he had known the destination he would be sailing to with the rest of the army under Napoleon Bonaparte, his idol general. But he was no politician and had no idea about matters of state and national strategy. What he was now hearing was new and exciting. It was a glimpse into the world of chess masters to whom soldiers like him were just pawns in the bigger game. It was a world he never knew. “Is the general party to all this?” he asked.
Roland laughed. “Your young general is not just party to this; he is the prime initiator of this move and worked hard at convincing the Directory to send him to Egypt. I met him as well and yes, I was deeply impressed. The man is a brilliant politician and strategist, but he is also very ambitious. He is a self-proclaimed Julius Caesar, and I am not at all sure about his real motives. I suspect that this young maverick is thinking of imitating Alexander’s great conquests in the east. In any case, the main reason, in my opinion, that the Directory accepted his grandiose plan, was that these five dignitaries wanted to see him far away from Paris. Your general is too capable and too popular. He is a threat to them.”
“I am no politician,” interjected Pascal, “but I assure you that the general is above suspicion. He is the greatest Frenchman alive today and a true servant of the revolution.”
Roland smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Perhaps, but enough of that." He raised his glass to his lips and took a sip. For a short moment, he closed his eyes, rolling the wine on his tongue and enjoying the fine taste. Then, he put the glass down. “I know your time is precious, son, and that you must return to Toulon, to your soldiers who are waiting for you to lead them. There is another reason I asked you to honor me with this visit apart from my desire to bid you farewell and wish you success before you sail under the French flag. I had better get down to it.”
Pascal was silent. He did wonder why he had been summoned home so urgently.
“Well, son, you have often wondered why a devout Christian like myself despises the papacy so much. Over the years, I have told you stories about this infamous establishment, which has consistently destroyed the most decent men among its believers. This institution has long ago forgotten that the only reason for its existence is the serving of the Lord and his Message. However, I never told you the whole story and how it touches our family’s legacy. Today, I will do that.”
Pascal straightened himself up on the divan and looked at his father in surprise.
“You surely remember January 21st, 1793.” Roland de Charney never liked using the new revolutionary calendar. Pascal nodded. He would never forget that day. “It was a holy day for me. I know it was barbaric. I saw your face then, and I know what you must have felt. Sometimes I think the Lord will never forgive us for all the horrors we have perpetrated in the name of the revolution, but that moment, when the king died and the monarchy perished, gave me sublime happiness and not just for the reasons you may imagine.”
Not a muscle moved in Pascal’s face. He was listening intently.
“Do you know what place it was, from which that evil man, Louis XVI, was taken to the guillotine in the Revolution Square? You do not, so I will tell you. The wretched king and that Austrian slut of his, Marie Antoinette, were kept in the Paris Temple. Do you know what that building used to be?”
Pascal did not know.
“It used to be the headquarters of the Paris Templars. They were a glorious order of believers who devoted their lives to fighting the Lord’s battles and to winning Christian domination in the Holy Land. You know who the Templars were, right?”
Of course Pascal knew. The Templars and their history were an obsession with his father. The library at their home was loaded with Templar writings and Templar history, which his father hungrily devoured. Pascal himself did not think much of these old-time stories. Engaging in ancient history seemed to him useless and unsuitable for young men. When he was a child, his father often told him the story of the small order which had been founded in the Holy Land by nine knights under the leadership of Hugues de Payens to protect pilgrims arriving in the Holy Land from Muslim bandits. From this humble start, the order was transformed within a short period into one of the most influential powers in the church, in politics and in Europe’s economy.
“What happened to the Templars, Pascal?”
Pascal knew. It was the story of the conspiracy between King Philippe IV of France, nicknamed “Philippe the fair,” and his protégé, Pope Clement V, for the annihilation of the Knights Templar. Philippe owed an enormous sum to the order which, at the time, was also the largest bank in Europe. Destroying the order and taking over its vast assets, was the way by which the king meant to solve his financial difficulties. On Friday, October 13th 1307, all Templar leaders in France were arrested. The hunt spread to the whole of Europe and within a few years, all Templar assets were confiscated and members of the order were delivered into the hands of the inquisitors. Some were broken into admitting to sins they had not committed, while others chose to hold on to their truth and burn at the stake.
Roland sighed softly. “I know that you never had real interest in this story, and that you often wondered about my obsession with the Templars. Well, son, here are some details you are not familiar with, and which will make you understand.”
Pascal sat erect on his divan, puzzled.
“On March 18th, 1314, after seven years of incarceration, the last Templar Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, and three other senior Templars were to be sentenced to life, based on confessions that the inquisitors had extracted from them under extreme torture. Two of the four men humbly accepted the sentence, but then the broken, seventy years old de Molay stood up in defiance. In front of the judges and the astonished audience, he went back on his confession and claimed absolute innocence. While he was still talking, the last Templar on the bench jumped to his feet and supported the claims of the old man. If they were guilty of anything, the two claimed, it was of the fact that they had surrendered to torture and admitted to false crimes and sins, thus betraying the Order. The Order, they said, was pure and holy, the indictments were fabricated and the admissions were void of any legal validity.
The stunned panel of judges immediately adjourned the meeting, not sure how to deal with this unexpected twist. Philippe the fair was more decisive. The furious king summoned the judges for a short consultation, which resulted in a proclamation that the two defying Templars were relapsed heretics, and should burn at the stake on a slow fire. The two men burned alive that very night, in front of the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. The peace of mind they displayed at the stake impressed all who watched the horrible scene. Before he died, de Molay cried out from among the flames that were consuming his body. He announced that before long, both King and Pope would join him for a final judgment before God. When, a few hours later, this horrific scene ended, many people were picking at the ashes, collecting relics from the remains of the two, who were already considered martyrs.”
“I know this story, Papa, perhaps not all the details…”
The old man raised his hand. “A moment, my son, have patience. There is one important detail you do not know. This brave man, the Preceptor of Normandy, who at the moment of truth stood by de Molay and then burned at the stake next to him... his name was Geoffroi de Charney.”
Pascal was not sure what to make of it. “De Charney?” he repeated the name, somewhat mystified.
His father stood up and walked towards the far wall, on which a few old portraits were h
anging. He pointed at one of them. “You must know this portrait, Pascal. It has been hanging here for as long as I can remember. This is Geoffroi de Charney, one of your ancestors, and now you know who this brave man was.”
Pascal put down his glass on a little table beside him, stood up and joined his father to look at the portrait. It was hard to make out much of it. The portrait was dark with age.
“Now you can perhaps understand how I felt on that day in January 1793. Indeed, some justice was done at the time, when, as de Molay had predicted, both King Philippe IV and his puppet Pope Clement V died within a year of the burning of the martyrs. But in 1793, justice was carried out to the next level. With wretched King Louis, the whole corrupt institution of the Monarchy was put to death - the ultimate punishment for the despicable crimes of Philippe the fair. This is what made that day so fulfilling for me. Now, all that is left for me to see is the fall of the other party to the conspiracy - the rotten, unholy papist institution which calls itself ‘The Holy Throne’.”
Roland de Charney closed his eyes and recited from the Bible. “When I sharpen my flashing sword, and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and repay those who hate me.[vi]” When he opened his eyes Pascal saw tears in them. “Justice must be done, my son.”
They returned to their seats. Roland sipped some wine to wet his throat. Pascal was apprehensive. He knew the intensity of the energies hidden in the heart of the old lion and how he had always worked to achieve his goals. What was he up to now? He kept silent and waited, but now his father closed his eyes again, as if in a trance. A minute passed, which to Pascal seemed an eternity. Then the older man opened his eyes. “Well, son, His will requires that this villainy is fully avenged. Furthermore, the consequences of the deed must be erased from the face of the earth and that which was destroyed by evil must come to life again. Otherwise, justice will not be fully served, will it?”
Pascal said nothing and looked into his father’s eyes. The gray-blue eyes were burning in a strange fire. “And justice will be done only when the spirit of the Poor Fellow-Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon rises again, renews its ages-old message and takes its revenge upon the evil Church.”
Roland de Charney let the words resonate in the air for a while and then fixed his gaze on Pascal. “And now, my son, I come to the reason for which I have summoned you here.”
5. Philippe de Charney - Acre, May 18th, 1291
The Templar fort was the only military facility in the city still standing. It was a pentagon, located on the southwestern tip of the Acre peninsula. Each side of the pentagon was about 200 Paris feet[vii] long. Two of the walls faced southward and westward, bordering on the sea, and the remaining three walls were heavily fortified. The northeastern wall faced the city, with the fort gate in its middle and a square watch tower on each side. This wall was now manned by knights and sergeants, who kept a close watch on the city which was gradually being taken by the Saracens, who would soon be closing in on them.
Sagging under his load and with the last remains of strength he had in him, Philippe de Charney banged on the fort’s gate. The sentries recognized him and let him in immediately. Philippe stumbled in and was instantly surrounded by the guards. With their help, he carefully unloaded the wounded man.
Mark de Tramelay, Captain of the Guard, and three sergeants in their black uniform, were approaching hurriedly. They stopped when they reached Philippe and looked at the wounded man. All identified him and instantly turned pale, the shock showing in their faces.
“Is the Grand Master still alive?” asked Mark in a quivering voice.
“I am not sure.” Philippe fought to regulate his halted breath. “He was wounded while leading the attack on the Accursed Tower, which we tried to win back from the Saracens. Please take him to the infirmary immediately and alert the Marshall.”
Mark signaled to one of his sergeants, who promptly hurried away. The other two sergeants transferred the injured man onto a stretcher and carried him inside, into the fort.
* * *
Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the Templars was lying on the bed with two physicians fussing over him. Besides them in the room stood Philippe de Charney, Mark de Tramelay and Pierre de Severy, Marshall of the Templars.
One of the physicians straightened up and crossed himself. His eyes met Pierre’s, and he shook his head. “The arrow penetrated his armpit and pierced the heart. He had no chance.”
Pierre thanked him with a nod and signaled him to leave. The two physicians promptly retired.
“The arrow hit the armpit gap in the armor. The Accursed Tower has lived up to its name,” said Philippe gloomily.
“Indeed it has,” agreed Pierre. “We just got word that the second attack on the tower had failed as well.”
“Sir,” Philippe lowered his head. “You are Grand Master now.”
Pierre shook his head. “Acting Grand Master perhaps, de Charney, and not for long.”
The three men fell silent, their eyes fixed on the body of their revered Grand Master as it lay on the bed, trying to fathom the calamity they had just suffered. Finally, de Severy turned to de Tramelay. “Mark,” he said in a low voice, “please leave me with Philippe.”
De Tramelay bowed and left the room. Pierre then turned to de Charney. It was some time before he spoke.
“Philippe, my brother,” he said at last. “I will not lie to you. We are approaching the end of our way. We will still take with us many Saracen heretics to the grave, but the Kingdom of Jerusalem is about to fall.”
Philippe had controlled his feelings so far, but now there were tears in his eyes. He tried to say something, but Pierre raised his hand to silence him. “Listen to me carefully, Philippe de Charney. I am about to assign to you the most important task you have ever been assigned. You are to do exactly as I tell you without a word of protest, even if you find my words unacceptable.”
Philippe looked up, surprised.
De Severy picked up a small object from a nearby table. It was a cylindrical package, wrapped in treated, waterproof leather and carefully tied with leather straps. “This is the most treasured asset of our Order and the source of our strength,” he said, handing the package over to Philippe. “It was discovered inside the ruins of the Temple in Holy Jerusalem, by Hugues de Payens and the Founding Fathers of our Order, 170 years ago, and has been entrusted in the hands of the presiding Grand Master ever since. Grand Master de Beaujeu gave it to me for safekeeping before he left for his last battle. I have no idea what is inside, but it must pass to the next Grand Master, which I do not expect to become. Your mission is to take this package and get it to a safe place. You will guard it with your life and deliver it to the next Grand Master, whoever he may be. Now, change your clothes quickly and go to the port. Patriarch Nicholas’ ship is about to leave for Cyprus. I sent him a message, and he is waiting for you. Time is running out, my brother. Now go!”
Philippe de Charney froze where he stood, staring at his commander in shock and disbelief. “Are you ordering me to abandon my brothers on the eve of the last battle?” he asked incredulously. “How can I ever live with such shame? Are you telling me to… to desert in the face of the enemy?”
“Philippe, my dear brother, please trust me. You will be doing the Order a much more important service than merely killing a few heathens. You must believe this with all your heart.”
Not knowing what to say, Philippe lowered his head.
“God bless you, Philippe de Charney. I do not think we shall meet again.”
The two men embraced.
* * *
Philippe went down the stairs leading into the fort basement. The armed sergeants at the tunnel entrance knew him and let him pass. He entered the tunnel and moved with quick steps. The Templar Tunnel had been dug many years before as a shortcut from the Templar fort on the west side of the peninsula, to Acre’s main port in the east.
The mounted burning torches painted dancing sh
adows on the stone walls and arched ceiling, and Philippe’s brain was flooded with terrifying visions. The horror he had experienced during the last few hours was now coming back to haunt him. His massacred friends… the Saracens he killed with his sword… the rivers of blood flowing on the stones beneath his feet… and above all, he was reliving, time and again, the most terrible moment of them all, the moment he knew all was lost.
* * *
He is charging at the head of his men toward the Accursed Tower. He is following Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu in a desperate attack to retake the tower which fell to the Saracens a short while ago. De Beaujeu is running forward headlong, immune to the burning catapult missiles and the rain of arrows whistling around him, inspiring his men with his leadership and invoking in them such courage and strength they never knew they had.
There was a prevailing myth among the knights, sergeants and soldiers, that Guillaume was protected by the heavens and that there was neither an arrow yet made, nor a sword forged, which could stop him. And now they are following him crazed, like so many blind men, believing in their power to turn defeat into victory. The noise around them is immense and terrible, with the drum beating of hundreds of Saracen camel riders drowning their battle cries and the cries of the wounded moaning for help.
And then it happens.
Guillaume, who has been advancing fearlessly until this moment, stops abruptly. He throws his hands up and paces backwards, swaying like a drunken man. The soldiers hold their breath, staring at him in fear and amazement. And then, an incredible thing takes place. The invincible Guillaume casts down his sword and shield, turns around and starts making his way back through the ranks of his men. The warriors fall silent for a while, trying to comprehend what their eyes are telling them. Their revered leader has had a change of heart… he is quitting the battle! The Templars, trained never to fear death, are dumbfounded and stunned. A first shout of contempt is heard from the ranks, and then more are joining, booing the disgraceful sight, jeering at their failed commander. Philippe, too, is thunderstruck and overwhelmed with shame and disappointment in his fallen idol…
